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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28610133">Deleted Scenes: Professor Arbor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38'>vands38</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Oxenfurtverse [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Applying for scholarships, Canon Era, Chapter 39, Found Family, Gen, Oxenfurt Academy (The Witcher), School Politics, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, arbor would very much like to adopt jaskier as his son though, chapter 38, which is the real message here, you see why I cut this THRILLING chapter from the main story</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:54:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,057</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28610133</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arbor notices that Jaskier is struggling and appeals to the Dean on his behalf</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaskier | Dandelion &amp; Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Oxenfurtverse [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980514</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Deleted Scenes: Professor Arbor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I originally wrote this as a new Chapter 39 to explain Jaskier's funding situation and to follow on smoothly from the last line in Chapter 38 -- </p><p>"Geralt asks for the woman’s name and trade, endeavouring to help at least one person who has fallen on hard times, in the hopes that someone will do the same for his bard many miles away."</p><p>But when I tried to insert the chapter back into the fic, I realised that it distracted too much from the main story and perhaps placed too much emphasis on something that ought to remain a minor detail. I also didn't like having to break the dual POV we've had so far to include a third person perspective. Long story short, this whole scholarship plotline is now condensed into a single line several chapters from now. However, because I have received many comments asking about scholarships etc. and because I'm fairly certain you all would like to see Arbor effectively filling out adoption paperwork for our young bard, I thought I would post this chapter as a standalone story. </p><p>cw: misgendering &amp; misogyny (from the Dean), allusions to mental health issues, bullying, risk of poverty, and past abuse to secondary characters.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Pancratz, a word.”</p><p>Jaskier closes his eyes in dread when Professor Arbor calls his name at the end of class. This was bullshit. Just because he was too busy to memorise the life cycle of a fucking iris he now had to waste even more time getting scolded by the Professor. Jaskier would have made time for the work if it was important – if irises were used in Geralt’s potions, or if they were edible and likely to be found on their travels, or if they could make a convenient poison for a certain Camber boy – but irises aren’t nearly deadly enough to be interesting and so it had fallen to the bottom of Jaskier’s priorities, and apparently, risen to the top of Arbor’s. </p><p>Jaskier carefully adopts a neutral expression as he packs away his belongings and approaches the desk at the front of the empty lecture hall. At least Arbor is mild-mannered enough that he’s unlikely to raise his voice at him. Jaskier is still recovering from Professor Gascoigne’s public humiliation last week when he had, in a sleep-deprived state, forgotten the date of the Novigradian Union formation. (The Autumn of 802, lest he forget).</p><p>Professor Arbor leans back against his desk and folds his arms, looking across at Jaskier with a deep frown. The peculiarity of such a stern expression on such a joyous face causes Jaskier to look away with shame and riffle through his satchel in search of the offending essay, hoping desperately to find something to look at other than the furrow of the Professor’s brow. </p><p>“No, no,” Arbor says, waving his hands at the proffered paper. “I don’t want to talk about that. Quite frankly, I don’t care if you can sketch the anatomy of an iris in Spring bloom, or any other flower for that matter, as long as <em>you</em> are still here come Spring.”</p><p>Jaskier, stunned, stuffs the papers back in his satchel. “I don’t understand, sir. Humans are perennial, unless I’m very much mistaken.”</p><p>Arbor sighs and extracts a handkerchief from his pocket with which to clean his spectacles. “You are falling behind, young man. Judging by your sharp wit, I doubt your poor grades stem from lack of intelligence, and so I beg of you,” he says, opening his arms wide as if to invite a confessional, “if there is something holding you back, speak of it now so that we may begin anew in the new year.”</p><p>Jaskier feels himself flush with shame, embarrassed at being caught. He thought he had everything under control – his schoolwork, his essay writing, his performances, his more intimate performances, the vocal coaching, the additional chores because he can’t afford to pay the washerwoman or the maid or the canteen fee… he thought he could juggle it all and still come out top at the end of the year. But this isn’t just one botched paper. It’s the worst in a string of low grades. He realises, with dread, that he might not need to worry about financing next year’s studies if he flunks out before he even gets there.</p><p>“Are your peers not understanding your transition?” Arbor hazards with another frown, one that (bizarrely) reads more like concernthan disappointment. “Has the Dean set you some taxing punishment, perhaps? Are you in ill health? Experiencing family discord? A lover’s tiff, perhaps? Or financial –?” </p><p>“Botany’s never been my strong suit,” Jaskier interrupts hurriedly, remembering to add a charming smile after the fact. “That’s all! No worries to speak of otherwise. Just never quite got the hang of stigmas and styles.”</p><p>Professor Arbor raises his eyebrows and reaches for a file on his desk. “Is that so?” he asks, casually flicking through the file. </p><p>Jaskier swallows his nerves because he knows exactly what Arbor will find. </p><p>“Yes, let’s see, you completed last year with a grade of seventy two,” he concludes. “That’s a First, the last I checked –”</p><p>“A low First,” Jaskier mumbles. </p><p>“I understand that Botany is not your best subject,” Arbor continues, musing at the open file. “You’re a Bardic student, after all, and certainly didn’t rub shoulders with your last tutor in the subject, yet even still, it seems you’ve never had an assignment in this class marked lower than sixty-five. So you understand why I find it concerning that your last three papers were… let’s see... sixty-two, fifty-nine, and now… well.”</p><p>Jaskier ducks his head and shuffles his satchel out of sight as if it will hide his shame just as well. </p><p>Professor Arbor tosses aside the file and removes his spectacles, visually assessing Jaskier so intensely that Jaskier feels himself flush with embarrassment. </p><p>“I’ve been tired, as of late,” Jaskier tries to explain. Normally if someone notices his exhaustion, he makes some excuse or other about the effects of starting hart root tea but that won’t work with the herbalist that supplies the stuff, so Jaskier tries another tact instead. “Maybe I’ve been doing one too many performances. Woodwind takes a lot of energy, you know? All that huffing and puffing. I’ll cut down in the new year, I’ll –”</p><p>“My wife suffers from bouts of ennui.”</p><p>Jaskier, who had been nervously playing with the strap of his satchel, stops his frantic movements by sheer surprise. “Uh… okay.”</p><p>“Yes, it’s as if a cloud falls over her – for days, even months sometimes. Once, when we were young, it settled for many years with very little respite. Naturally, over time, we developed a concoction that seems to balance her mind, and luckily I have not seen her so dispirited for a number of years but I cannot tell you how lifeless she seemed when the illness took her. It was as if she was a walking ghost. Empty, exhausted, emotionless.” He shudders, as if an actual ghost passes through him. “So when I tell you, young man, that you look just as wretched as she once did, please know that I mean it very seriously. You are not tired, you are <em>exhausted</em>. I know the signs very well.”</p><p>Jaskier grits his teeth. His aunt suffered from a similar illness but did not have a herbalist as dedicated as Arbor to aid her plight. She was supposed to “grin and bear it” which, Jaskier realises belatedly, is the same brand of bullshit that he has been pedaling to himself these past few months. </p><p><em>Fuck it</em>, he thinks. <em>Fuck it</em>. </p><p>“I have no funds for tuition next year,” Jaskier blurts before his pride can get the better of him. “I am taking extra work so that I might afford it.”</p><p>Arbor opens his mouth and then closes it again, seemingly lost in contemplation. Jaskier feels a flush on his cheeks and prays that Arbor doesn’t ask why he is struggling to make ends meet; he could not stand the shame of admitting to a faculty member that he has been disowned owing to his queerness. Thankfully, Arbor is too polite to ask for details. “Are there no scholarships available to you?” he asks, echoing Jaskier’s first hopes three months ago. “You’re a smart lad, surely –”</p><p>Jaskier shakes his head, cutting him short. “You have to qualify upon entry to the school. It is not possible to gain a scholarship afterwards.”</p><p>Arbor frowns. “That seems rather callous. There must be plenty of students in your position who fall on hard times midway through their degree. Surely, Dean Corvum ought to make allowances for such students, especially for those with an exemplary academic record.”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs, unsure what is expected of him, and feeling more ashamed by the minute that he even let himself confess such a thing. Arbor is sometimes just so <em>fatherly</em> – patient, and kind, and advisory – that Jaskier cannot help but talk to him about what’s on his mind. </p><p>“Very well,” Arbor says, rising from his desk. “I’ll speak to him myself, and see if there’s something to be done –”</p><p>“No, please!” </p><p>Panic flares in Jaskier’s chest at the thought of Professor Arbor going to the Dean. After the incident with Ocimus, the Dean is looking for any excuse to expel Jaskier and if he suspects Jaskier won’t be able to pay the fees next year then it will be all the reason he needs.</p><p>Jaskier rushes forward until he’s practically begging at Arbor’s feet. “You can’t tell him. Please. I’m going to find a way to get by, I will, but I cannot bear the pity nor the rumour that it will provoke if he is to know. He will expel me at the mere notion. <em>Please</em> –”</p><p>Arbor’s hands settle over Jaskier’s flailing ones and Jaskier forces himself to breathe. The Professor gives him a moment, studying him very closely, before nodding. </p><p>“I understand,” he says with unusual gravity. “I will not mention your name to the Dean, but I do wish you had come to me with this earlier. Asking for help is not something shameful, Jaskier. It is, in fact, a very human trait to rely on each other in times of need. We are – as you say – perennial beings, but even the hardiest of beings can benefit from assistance from time to time –  a little guiding hand to shape our path, a little warmth when the weather turns cold, a little shelter through the storm...”</p><p>Jaskier watches as Arbor seems to lose himself in his thoughts, undoubtedly thinking of his own gardens surviving the winter snow.</p><p>“I’ll, uh, bear that in mind,” Jaskier says, taking Arbor’s daydreaming as an opportunity to escape the conversation. “I have to get to my next class, sir.”</p><p>“Oh! Of course, of course!” Arbor says, seemingly snapping out of his thoughts. “Take care of yourself, lad, and if I stumble across an answer to your problems, I will endeavour to tell you.”</p><p>Jaskier nods. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” he murmurs, doubting that Arbor will concern himself with his troubles any more than he has already done so. </p><p>-</p><p>“Come in,” the Dean’s voice booms from behind the closed door.</p><p>Timothy Arbor can’t help but be reminded of that rather unpleasant interview every time he stands on Dean Corvum’s threshold; that raven-like stare that bored into him as he spontaneously made a plea for the two young students facing expulsion on the other side. He can only hope that the Dean is equally as amenable to his carefully selected words this time. </p><p>Arbor braces himself for the undoubtedly difficult conversation to come as he steps through the door. Dean Corvum doesn’t even give him the courtesy of a greeting as his head remains buried in the papers on his desk. </p><p>Luckily, Arbor has enough manners for the both of them. “Ah, thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Morfran. How’s Julie? And the kids? If Henry’s still got that pesky cough of his, I’m sure I could whip up a –”</p><p>“Fine, thank you, Timothy,” the Dean says. The man’s never been much for small talk. “How can I help you today?”</p><p>Arbor is never very good at getting right to the point of things and he struggles for a moment to condense his addled thoughts into something coherent. How to phrase his inquiry without breaking his promise to the young Pancratz? Finally, he settles on – “A second year student came to me recently, experiencing financial difficulties. Am I to understand there are no scholarships available for those entering their final year?”</p><p>The Dean sighs, and then speaks by rote while his quill scratches continuously on his papers, “Scholarships are to be gained during entrance exams in the August preceding the first year of study and last for the full three years of their time at the Academy. To qualify, students must be from a low-income background, score adequately in their tests, and come with a letter of recommendation from a standing member in their community. This applies to all scholarships barring the Oxenfurt Scholarship which is restricted to a local male resident with exceedingly high potential, as funded by the Mayor of this town. If one wishes to apply for financial aid outside their scholarships then they must appeal to the Bursar who is authorised to dispense discretionary monetary bursaries when needed, not exceeding the sum of two hundred crowns and only to be issued after the receipt of a letter from the student’s parent or guardian. No other avenue for funds exists at this time.”</p><p>Throughout this speech, the Dean didn’t look up once. Arbor has never met a man quite so rude in all his life, but, as the man currently controls his paychecks, he clears his throat and muses, “Two hundred crowns… not enough for tuition, I wager.”</p><p>“Tuition is currently nine hundred and fifty-two crowns a year, plus two hundred for accommodation, another hundred or so for use of the canteen, then laundry, maid service, and so on. I assure you it is mere pennies to these young nobles. Whichever student came to you with these monetary woes needs merely to spend less coin on whores and trinkets, or else write to their estates for another line of credit. I wouldn’t concern yourself with the students’ affairs, Timothy. They are petty, for the most part. As you are well aware.” The Dean raises his head – for the first time – to pin Arbor with a smug smile, before the quill starts scratching on the papers again. </p><p>Arbor narrows his eyes at the insinuation that the abuse of several women and girls is a “petty affair” but he suspects that Corvum would lack the empathy to understand as much as a stubbed toe, so it hardly comes as a surprise. </p><p>“So there is nothing to be done?” Arbor asks, when he’s recovered from that particular absurdity. </p><p>The Dean sighs, and puts down his quill with notable frustration. “You may, if you like, volunteer to be the student’s advocate. If his family are unwilling to appeal to the Board themselves – which I highly suspect they are – then anyone else may do so on the student’s behalf providing that they give sufficient evidence.”</p><p>“Such as?”</p><p>The Dean drums his long fingernails against the desk and lets out a long and theatrical hum of consideration. “A letter of recommendation, I’d say, from at least five out of the seven faculty heads, accompanied by indisputable evidence of his financial difficulties and a summary of his grades. Then you, as his advocate, could feasibly present his case to the Board for consideration. If swayed, they may choose to appeal to our donors on the student’s behalf and potentially raise enough funds to cover the final year’s expenses. However,” the Dean says with a raised finger before Arbor can get too excited, “for our donors to even <em>consider</em> opening their wallets for a stranger, the boy better be homeless and starving <em>and</em> a First class student. If it’s a lass, needless to say it’s a waste of time and energy advocating for her education – unless she’s willing to attract their attention otherwise, of course,” he says with a wink that makes Arbor’s skin crawl. “All in all, a lot of work to put upon yourself for a student that likely won’t even thank you for your time. There’s certainly nothing to gain from such an endeavour.”</p><p>“Agree to disagree,” Arbor corrects, as politely as he is able. “I believe what we shall <em>gain</em> is his continued existence, which I would certainly count as a success.”</p><p>The Dean grunts in displeasure and waves his hand as if to say, <em>go on</em>.</p><p>“My lad is a keen student who deserves to finish his education, and it would be my honour to be his advocate. I’ll acquire those letters and any other evidence that is required, as long as you declare that you will treat his case like you would any other.”</p><p>The Dean’s eyes narrow, tilting his head with curiosity, raven-eyes focused and calculating. </p><p>Arbor swallows his nerves, afraid that he’s said too much. After the Ocimus affair, the Dean had warned him away from those “devilish girls” and he knows that Jaskier’s fears of expulsion are not unfounded. If the Dean realises that he speaks of one Julian Alfred Pancratz, then he would very likely throw out the case before it even reaches the Board. However. The Arbors are very good at keeping hold of the secrets that matter and stirring chaos with the ones that don’t. He and Georgie will find a way to help Jaskier without Corvum suspecting, if only he can make him swear to neutrality. </p><p>The Dean nods. “I am an honourable gentleman,” he says at last and it takes every ounce of strength in Arbor not to disagree. “You have my word. You may present his case anonymously, if you wish, until the Board has made their decision.”</p><p>Arbor releases the breath he was holding and nods rapidly in relief. “Excellent, excellent,” he murmurs, already plotting how on earth he can convince Professor Gascoigne to give a letter of recommendation to a student that she berates every lunchtime. “I best be on my way then –”</p><p>“Timothy.”</p><p>Arbor turns to see Dean Corvum drumming his fingers on the desk with the same steady, foreboding rhythm and his eyes still narrowed in thought. </p><p>“You are aware, I hope, that by advocating for a student, you are inevitably tying your reputation to his. You ought to think carefully before stating your support for an individual, especially one that some might see as less desirable. You are new here, after all, and I would hate to see you leaving so soon.”</p><p>That, Arbor believes, was a <em>threat</em>. He clasps his hands behind his back, twisting them nervously, slick with sweat, but safely out of the sight of the eagle-eyed Dean. “Thank you for your concern, Morfran,” he says with a forced smile, “but I cannot think of a single student who deserves an advocate more than he. I will do my best to make you see the truth of it.”</p><p>Arbor leaves before he can see the Dean’s inevitable scowl and leans back against the closed door in relief. Five letters of recommendation, a grade summary, and a single piece of evidence that ought to be easy to obtain. If that is all he needs to keep a good lad in good health then he will do everything in his power to provide it.</p><p> </p>
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